Out of Ink

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Some days
even though words
are all around me
–on page after page
in book after book
on shelf after shelf
–on the back of every
shampoo bottle
in the shower
–in every envelope
of every piece
of junk mail
in the mailbox
–on every label
of every box and can
in the kitchen.
I still cannot seem
to find the right ones
for a poem.
It’s a good thing
silence and I have
become friends
when I sit still
and listen, she
reminds me — poems
take coaxing — words
can be shy — maybe
tomorrow

—–

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I Am

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“I am a bouquet of wildflowers and thorns, a tangle of thistle and clover, a riotous fistful of color and contradiction. I am joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, walking the earth with bare feet, trailing the dust of a billion brilliant stars from my billowing skirts. I am wind and rain. I am the dark shadows of the forest path. I am questions and answers, confidence and anxiety, earth and sky. I am wise and naive. I am girl and mother, seductress and sage, priestess and supplicant, innocent and sinner, huntress and prey. I gather to myself the beautifully broken and breathtakingly whole, the wandering and the waiting, the tribe of souls lost and found in the desert oasis I call home. I am stained by their brilliance, soaked in their passion, I am humbled by their love. I sit in their midst, singing and silent, awed and oh, so grateful.”

—–

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